Ever since she could remember, ten-year-old Megan had wanted a horse. Growing up in rural Oregon. it was only natural. She was surrounded by horses, had ridden many times with the other kids in the neighborhood, she had even become friends with the ponies next door. However, she had never had a horse to call her own.
One crisp, cold Christmas Eve, Megan was doing what she usually did: playing outside on her father’s small farm. Her adventures led her to the barn, where she found a litter of new baby rabbits in one of the hutches. She loved the barn. It was always cozy, smelling of alfalfa, molasses, and the friendly scent of warm cows. One of the barn cats yawned and stretched its way out of the nest it had built in the straw. It came over and rubbed its face against the girl’s leg. She scratched its head for a minute, then smiling, stepped back out into the cold dusk. Going around the corner to the chicken coop, she paused at the neighbor’s fence to feed a handful of grain to the ponies that waited for her. They were two aging geldings, black and white pintos, whose riders had long since grown up and gone off to college. They led a blissful life of retirement. “Merry Christmas, boys,” Megan said. “I’ve got to go get the eggs now, but I’ll bring you a treat tomorrow!”
As Megan emerged from the hen house with her bucket full of fresh brown eggs, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the house. “Coming!” She yelled.
“Where have you been?” Mom asked when Megan stumbled, breathless through the kitchen door.
“Just outside.” Megan answered, “Here are the eggs.”
“Hurry up and get changed,” her mother said, taking the bucket. “We’re going to be late for Grandma’s. And take a shower!” she called to her disappearing daughter.
Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house was a family tradition from time out of mind. Several generations would gather in the old farmhouse, which had been in the O’Brian family for nearly a hundred years. Megan always liked to spend time there, especially when all the aunts, uncles and cousins were present.
They arrived in time for dinner, in spite of mother’s concern. Megan was a little squirmy in her frilly, girly-girl Christmas dress. She would have been much more comfortable in her Levis and a flannel shirt, but mom insisted.
The house was brimming with Christmas cheer. The aroma of a ham baking and Wassail on the stovetop. The sounds of laughter, coming from the kitchen where the adults always seemed to gather. But the center of it all was the huge, sparkling, tinsel-covered tree that Grandpa had cut from the back field.
Megan heard her cousin, Jill, call from the den. All the cousins were playing Monopoly, and she went to join them. The game went on until grandma rang the bell for supper.
The center island in the kitchen groaned with food, to be served buffet style. Once everyone was seated, Grandpa said grace, and then it was okay to eat. Everything was delicious, as it always was at Grandma’s house.
After dinner, the whole family gathered in the living room, around the Christmas tree. Dad and Uncle Jim took out guitars and Aunt Judy sat at the piano. In the midst of the singing came the sound all the kids had been waiting for a jingle-jingle from outside. The younger ones, Megan included, rushed to the window, while those who were more “grown-up” grinned and kept their seats, not wanting to admit that they, too, really believed in Santa Claus. In a minute, the jingling had moved to the front door, and a highly anticipated knock followed. Grandma, as she did every year, grumbled as she went to the door, “Now who could be coming to call on Christmas Eve?”
“Merry Christmas!” exclaimed the red-suited figure, his presence filling the crowded room. “Are there any good children here tonight?”
The kids all rushed in at once, nearly bowling over the jolly visitor, who truth be told, held a striking resemblance to Uncle Joe wearing a false beard. Starting with the youngest, they took their turn sitting on Santa’s lap and expressing their wishes. There are no skeptics on the night before Christmas. Megan fell somewhere near the middle of the bunch. When it was her turn, she felt a little shy. She knew that things at the farm had been somewhat lean, as her father would say, and that gifts were not what the holiday was all about. Even so, maybe Santa could do something.
“Well, Megan,” Santa smiled, (he always knew the names of all the kids) “Have you been behaving yourself this year?”
“I think so,” she replied. “I’ve been remembering to do my chores without being told, most of the time.”
“Wonderful, wonderful! Now what would you like for Christmas this year?”
“Well, some new cowboy boots, a watercolor set, a copy of ‘My Friend Flicka’ and…” she hesitated, “and…maybe…a horse.” She finished almost in a whisper, as though speaking her wish would make it disappear.
“My, my, that’s quite a list.” Santa grinned. “That’s a pretty tall order. I don’t know about that last one. It would take a really special kind of magic, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”
Megan gave him a big hug, (he smelled very much like Uncle Joe) and scampered back across the room. She didn’t really have much hope, but at least now, it was on the record. She had never told anyone before.
The rest of the evening went fast. Shortly after Santa left, Uncle Joe joined them, complaining as he always did, that those darn cows took longer to feed every year. Grandpa settled into his favorite chair, and a hush came over the room. He lit his pipe, cleared his throat, and began, “’T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house…..”
Megan was warm, content and sleepy, when dad deposited her in her room at home. She dropped the velveteen dress at the foot of her bed, crawled under the covers and dreamed of horses.
She woke to a gentle snow falling against her window, and the sounds of breakfast cooking in the kitchen below. Remembering that it was Christmas, she bounded out of bed and into her jeans in one motion. She grabbed a warm sweatshirt and rushed down the stairs.
Mom was frying pancakes and Dad was sitting at the table with his morning coffee. “Good morning sleepyhead,” Dad grinned over his newspaper, “What took you so long? It’s almost ..7:30..!”
“Morning Mom, morning Dad,” she bubbled. “Merry Christmas! Is breakfast almost ready?” She knew no gifts would be opened until after they had eaten, and cleaned up.
“Almost,” said Mom, “but I need you to do me a favor, before we sit down. Please go out and check on that batch of bunnies. It got really cold last night, and I’d like you to put some extra straw in their hutch.”
Megan pulled on boots and a jacket and ran outside. She raced through the door into the barn and skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open. There, in a previously unused box stall stood the most beautiful horse that Megan had ever seen. She was a smallish mare, barely larger than a pony, and a golden palomino in color. On her halter was a big, red bow, with a card attached to it. Megan approached softly, as she had been taught, and stroked the velvety muzzle.
“Well, what do you know about that?” Dad’s voice came from behind.
Megan turned; she had not heard her parents come in behind her. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she breathed. “Where did she come from?”
“There’s something hanging from that bow,” Mom pointed out, smiling, “Why don’t you see what it says?”
Removing the card, Megan read aloud, “Merry Christmas, Megan. My name is Magic. Santa said you would take good care of me. I’ve come to live with you.”
The girl burrowed her face into the warm neck. “Hello, Magic. This has been the best Christmas ever.”
****
The story is fictional, but Grandma’s recipe is a very real part of our family Christmases. Although I personally prefer the non-alcoholic version, you can add a shot of spiced rum to each cup, if desired..
Wassail
6 cups apple cider
6 cups cran-raspberry juice
1 orange, thinly sliced
1 tsp. whole cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
Combine all in a large saucepan. Heat to a simmer. The longer the spices steep, the richer the flavor will be. Serve hot with a sprinkle of cinnamon.
(A Crock-pot set on low works really well, keeping the wassail hot all day)
